by Roger Johns
“Is there an upside?”
“His whole perception is based on it being accidental. If he knew the truth, things might look different to him. He might have an idea about who could do such a thing.”
“It’s worth a gamble.” He started toward the hallway, but Wallace stayed in the observation room, still staring at the ceiling. “You having second thoughts?” he asked.
“Just sifting back through everything. Something’s there, I just can’t get it to gel.” She pushed up out of the chair and moved toward the door, then stopped, her attention held by a monitor showing one of the other rooms.
Mason followed her gaze.
“See the man on the hot seat?” she said, pointing at the monitor. “That’s Arthur Staples, the man who found Overman in the warehouse.”
Staples’s hands rested free on the table. A bandage covered two fingers on his left hand. “Should we pay him a visit?” Mason asked.
“After we’re done with our guest of honor.”
* * *
“Just for the sake of conversation, let’s say your theory is correct, that the killer wanted to step into the shoes of this new supplier,” Wallace said, after she and Mason had rejoined Stacky and Hambone. “If he succeeded, how would he stay connected to the source of the new supplier’s merchandise?”
“Maybe the killer was the source. Once he and his buddies got the goods out of evidence, they’d need to hook up to a distribution system—a very dangerous maneuver. So, they have this guy, the one we’ve been calling the new supplier, they have him take that risk and make the connection. Once that’s done, they decide they’ll get rid of him and deal with Ronnie directly. But the deal blows up and Ronnie ends up getting shot, instead.”
“We don’t currently assign a high probability to that scenario,” Mason replied.
“Why’s that?” Stacky asked.
“Ronnie’s cause of death would seem to indicate otherwise,” Wallace said, resuming her seat on the edge of the table.
“I’m not followin’,” Stacky said, with a puzzled look.
“You’re not about to inform my client that he’s a suspect in the Ronnie Overman homicide, are you?” Hambone asked.
“Should I?” Wallace asked.
“Don’t waste your time. He’s alibied. Airtight.”
“Do you know how Overman was killed?” Wallace asked, returning her attention to Stacky.
“I just assumed he was shot. But now that I think about it, it was never specifically reported in the news so no, I guess I don’t really know.”
“It was nothing so quick as a stray bullet,” Wallace said. “His fingertips were crushed with pliers, then somebody slit open his abdomen and sewed a live snake inside.”
“Motherfuck,” Stacky hissed. He jerked back, his eyes rimmed white like a frightened horse.
“The killer was after information and wanted it very badly,” Wallace continued. “If the new supplier worked for the killer, the killer would already know the supplier’s identity and wouldn’t need to torture it out of anyone. No, the killer had to be after something else.”
“Think, Stacky. This is the important part. Who could do something like this?” Mason asked.
“Motherfuck,” Stacky repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. He slumped forward, resting his head on his hands. “I don’t fucking know. Somebody who knew what they were doing. This had to be a pro job. Maybe it was an inside job.”
“Think hard,” Mason pressed. “What could the killer possibly want to know so badly?”
“I swear to God I don’t—”
Something clicked in Wallace’s head and she interrupted. “What made Ronnie stop thinking his regular suppliers were no longer trying to trap him?” Wallace asked, in a quiet voice, derailing Mason’s line of questioning.
Mason shot her an irritated look. He opened his mouth to re-ask his question, but Stacky’s sudden turn toward Hambone stopped him.
“Hey. I’m talking to you.” Wallace raised her voice, getting up in Stacky’s face.
“My client obviously wishes not to answer that question,” the lawyer intoned.
Sensing pay dirt, she tried again. “What made Ronnie think his higher-ups didn’t give a shit if this new supplier stepped into the picture?”
“Detective Hartman,” Hambone blared, rocketing from his chair and extending a hand in her direction.
Wallace shrugged out of reach. “Come on, Stacky. If it looks bad, I’ll give you immunity.”
“Bullshit,” Hambone yelled. “Stay quiet, Stacky. She can’t offer you immunity. Only the prosecutor can do that and she knows it.” He rounded on Wallace. “I can’t believe you’re pimping my client like this, with me right here telling you not to.”
“It’s money, isn’t it?” she said, ignoring the outburst. “Ronnie was a businessman. He wasn’t going to risk everything for a few more bucks, not even quite a few more bucks, unless he had the boss’s blessing—which he evidently got. For a price. Am I close?”
“Stacky, not a word,” Hambone barked.
Wallace turned to Mason. A sense of calm settled over her in the wake of her flash of insight. “Ronnie’s higher-ups were okay with him peddling the new guy’s product as long as they got their cut.”
“How does that threaten him?” Mason pointed at Stacky.
“Perhaps you’d like to take over as counsel for my client,” Hambone gibed.
“You are way too plugged in for being just a driver, Mr. Vincent.” Wallace circled the table and stood next to Stacky, bending to speak into his ear. “But then you weren’t driving just people, were you? You were driving the money. Handing it off to the bigger fish up the line. Is that what’s got you so tongue-tied?”
“Don’t answer that, Stacky,” Hambone said. “No more questions.”
“Is that all you’re worried about?” Mason asked. “Getting pinned as a money runner?”
“Speaking entirely hypothetically, the knowing transportation of anything of value in furtherance of a criminal enterprise is itself a crime. In fact, it’s a felony if the underlying crime was a felony,” Hambone lectured. “And if the enterprise happens to cross a state line, it becomes a separately prosecutable federal felony. So, if you think my client’s gonna stick his dick into a trap like that, on the off chance you might soft-pedal this bullshit manslaughter charge, please feel free to think again.”
“Look, this has been fun and all, but I’ve been about as useful as I believe I can be,” Stacky said. “When are you nice people gonna let me out of here?”
“Some other folks have questions about other cases, first,” Wallace said.
“What?”
“After that, you’re out as soon as you make bail or the DA decides not to prosecute.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Be helpful and maybe the DA will recommend low bail.”
“We don’t want that,” Hambone said. “I want my client bonded out the regular way and I want your people to argue hard for something substantial,” he said, woodpeckering a fingertip on the tabletop.
“Goddamn,” Stacky shouted. “Whose side are you on, you fuckin’—”
“I’m saving your ass, big boy. You waltz outta here smelling like a deal, your people are gonna think you bought your way out by talking pretty with the police lady. Next thing you know, they’re feeding you feet-first through a wood chipper.”
“Just remember,” Wallace said, getting up in Stacky’s face again. “When I come calling … you be ready with a story to tell or I’ll reel you back in.”
* * *
“This way,” Wallace said, as soon as they were in the hallway. “Arthur Staples. Remember?”
“Right,” Mason said, hanging back.
Wallace was visibly excited. “We still don’t know who killed Overman, but I think we know who didn’t. Echeverría was getting his cut from whatever Matt was pushing, so he would have no motive to kill Overman.”
“You should have let me k
now you were going to cut me off like that.”
A startled look flashed across her face. She had expected a thank-you, not a slap, for solving the Echeverría riddle. “I didn’t know I was going to. Everything just suddenly fell into place.”
“Well … it seemed a bit calculated.”
“Well … it wasn’t,” she insisted.
“I looked like a stooge in there, five steps behind everyone else in the room.” He gave her a wry look, hands in his pockets.
“Mason, please. We’re starting to sound like an old married couple.” His flinty expression told her that her breezy manner wasn’t going to defuse his annoyance. She leaned back against the wall, exhausted but still keyed up from the interrogation. “Okay, look. Do you remember when we were sitting in the woods, babysitting Matt’s motorcycle?”
“I remember,” he said, rocking lazily from the balls of his feet to his heels.
“And David Bosso walked us through how Stacky got hooked up with Overman by doing Overman a favor—something Overman didn’t want any of his regulars to see?”
They resumed walking toward the room with Arthur Staples.
“That was years ago.”
“The point is, it meant that even way back then he trusted Stacky. So, once it clicked that Stacky knew more than someone who was just a chauffeur would know, things … you know.”
Mason shook his head and gave her a grudging smile. “Damn. Nicely done.”
“Thank you,” she said, blushing at his compliment. “One more thing. I think we can eliminate Stacky’s evidence-locker theory as the source of the new supply.”
“Why’s that?”
“Those cocaine inventories are all over the country. For a supply that spread out to have the effect your analysts saw right here, it would all have to be shipped here and sold here. It makes more sense to just sell it back into the markets it was seized from.”
They stopped outside the room Staples was in.
“For all the good I’ve done, I could have stayed in DC and just faxed you my list of questions,” Mason said.
“Don’t be so modest. If it weren’t for you—”
“If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have an officer in the hospital, getting his goddamn brains put back together.”
Wallace and Mason turned back toward the voice. It was Wallace’s boss, Chief of Detectives Jason Burley, coming up the hall behind them. He positioned himself between Wallace and the door to the interrogation room. His face had fresh bed creases, he looked hastily dressed, and his stony glare darted back and forth between Wallace and Mason.
“What is Arthur Staples doing in there?” Wallace asked, springing up on her toes to look over Burley’s shoulder into the room.
Staples was still sitting at the table. His clothes were torn, but other than the bandage on his fingers, he appeared to be in good shape. He turned at the sound of Wallace’s voice, giving her his trademark dead-faced stare.
Burley folded his arms across his chest. “Where is your partner, Detective Hartman? Not your hotshot DEA buddy here, your partner—the one I put you with?”
“How should I know? Every time—”
“He’s your partner. That’s how,” he bellowed.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Wallace protested. “We’re partners. We don’t live together.”
“Don’t you get a smart mouth with me. You’re here, in the middle of the night. Your partner should be in on this, unless there’s a damn good reason otherwise. It is never ‘how should I know,’ while you’re out squiring around—”
“I’m not squiring around anybody. We’ve been—”
“I know where you’ve been. Do you know where your partner’s been?”
Wallace started to speak. Her face crumpled when the answer hit her. “I told him to research Staples. I never said to tail him.”
“Did you tell him not to? Did you?”
“What happened?” She shouldered past Burley into the room with Staples.
“He beat Mike Harrison into a coma,” Burley shouted after her. “That’s what happened.”
Wallace turned to look at Burley, as her stomach dropped. “Oh, God. Is he going to be okay?”
“Too soon to tell.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Where did they take him?”
“Your sudden, but belated concern is commendable, but it doesn’t erase the fact that this should never have happened.”
“I’m not trying to erase anything,” Wallace said, her voice rising. “I just want to know where he is.”
“General. He’s in surgery and, from there…” Burley pursed his lips and shook his head.
“Mr. Staples,” she said, sitting in the chair across from him. “Look, I know you and I got off to a rocky start, but I’m not your enemy. Let me help you.”
Staples remained mute, no longer even looking at Wallace, so she walked out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her.
“Your partner was prowling around behind the Staples residence, alone, in street clothes,” Burley said. “Staples thought he was a burglar. Decided to teach him a lesson.”
Wallace could feel herself getting ready to explode. “I don’t understand why you even brought him here,” she said, pointing back at Staples, her voice rising. “Any of us would have done what he did. And since when is it okay for a plainclothes to be lurking around a private residence alone at night?”
“Exactly,” Burley said, throwing his arms up. “How is it you didn’t know Mike was gonna pull a stunt like that?”
“Because the partner you put me with won’t return my calls, he misses meetings, he makes a point of being here only when I’m not.” When it looked as if Burley was going to argue the point, Wallace cut him off. “Mike’s not a rookie. He knew better than to do what he did. I’ve had him driving a desk because that’s where he belonged.” She looked back toward the interrogation room.
“Three o’clock, Hartman. By three o’clock tomorrow, you make sure everything you got on this investigation is in the books. After that, you stand down.”
“You’re taking me off the case?” She moved away from Mason and stepped into Burley’s personal space. “Are you kidding me?”
“Mike was new to detectives. You should have supervised him better,” Burley said, looking down his nose at Wallace.
“Don’t tell me I didn’t do my job. I gave him what he could handle. Things he needed to learn. He wasn’t ready to be back on the line.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick to make up your mind on that point.”
“I don’t think that was the problem here.” She stepped back and folded her arms across her chest.
“Enough from you,” Burley said, his eyes slitted and his right hand came up like a stop sign. “Consider yourself lucky I don’t initiate a disciplinary action. Three o’clock. You be in my office, ready to answer questions from the new team.”
11:00 P.M.
Wallace and Mason exited the building, Wallace silently fuming as they made their way toward her car until she couldn’t hold in her rage anymore.
“Burley knows this wasn’t my fault. He knew Mike was a loose cannon when he gave him to me, he just doesn’t want to admit it because it would put his own ass on the line.” She stopped, hugging her arms around her body and stared at the ground. After a few seconds she looked up at Mason. “Sorry you had to see that.”
“Don’t be. Until now, I was starting to think of you as a real pushover.” He gave her a look of such bemused admiration that she burst out laughing.
“Stop doing that,” she said.
“Doing what?”
“That. That goofy look you have whenever something intense happens. That’s the second time today. I’m a serious detective.”
“You’re right,” he chuckled. “It’s unseemly for you to go around … laughing like that.”
“So, where does all this leave you?” she asked, once she regained her composure.
&nbs
p; “Back to Washington. I’m satisfied that Echeverría wasn’t the mastermind behind this, even though Stacky wouldn’t come right out and say he was running the money.”
“I’m happy to introduce you to whoever this case gets handed off to,” she said.
“Actually, I think I’ve got what I came for. Since Overman’s dealers are moving all the new stuff and Echeverría didn’t kill him, the whole idea of a cartel war gets pretty wobbly. First thing in the morning, I’ll cancel the meetings I had with the sheriff’s investigators and the FBI.”
“Shall I drop you at your hotel, then?” she asked, looking down, scuffing the toe of her boot against the asphalt.
“Alright,” he said after several seconds of silence. “I had hoped to do a little sightseeing, before I went back to DC. But it’s so late. Another time?” he asked, studying her face.
“There are things to be seen, even at this hour.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” She felt like a teenager asking for a first date, and his decision to pack up and leave was making her feel untethered. They had quickly fallen into the kind of easy, almost playful give-and-take that made it feel as if they had known each other for ages. It had the feel of something familiar and important, and she wasn’t ready for it to be over.
“Have you had dinner?” she asked.
“So long ago I’m starving again. Do you think that place we went to yesterday is still open?”
“I have a better idea,” she said. Her phone buzzed. “It’s Chief Whitlock. Wallace Hartman,” she answered, and stopped walking. “That is strange. Anything we can act on?” She listened for a while longer, then ended the call.
“What was that?” Mason asked.
“Matt Gable’s phone lit up for a couple of minutes, went dark for a while, and then lit up again, moving steadily northeast from a point somewhere near Lake Charles.”
“Can we have him picked up?” Mason asked, excitedly.
“The phone’s been recovered, but Matt wasn’t with it. Whitlock got the State Police to home in on it, and they found it duct-taped to the underside of a long-haul truck. But then, why do I care? It’s not my case anymore.”
